


Great Mind

by Imboredshootthewall



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Drug Use, Gen, Loneliness, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Recreational Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes and Developmental & Mental & Physical Issues, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-27 15:28:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imboredshootthewall/pseuds/Imboredshootthewall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is alone and struggling with his inner thoughts. He has been clean for a long time, but that might be about to change. If only he had something other than his work to live for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There it was again. The emptiness. It would always be there, he was fully aware of that. Yet, he still hoped it wouldn’t.   
Just moments ago he was enjoying the thrill of the chase. Lestrade had desperately called him and he, as always, had delivered the identity of the murderer. It had been an exciting case. This still was not enough, however. Nothing was ever enough for Sherlock Holmes. There he was again, sitting in his armchair, nervously tapping his knees with his fingertips. “When’s the next one?”, he helplessly yelled out to the skull in front of him. The skull simply stared back, as if to mock him.  
His mind was still working on full speed, but he had nothing to use it for. The mental power was slowly eating away at him, draining him from any physical energy he had left. He sighed and got up, only to let himself drop down on the couch. What’s the use anyway, he thought. He curled himself up, knees to his chin. The urge rising from within was hard to ignore. But was he really to blame, when there was only one thing which could ease this torture? 

He had promised himself to stop. Lestrade was going through enough trouble bringing him in when he was clean, let alone if he were to involve a junkie in a police investigation. Mycroft had kept him out of trouble more than Sherlock would like to admit. He probably would have been in prison more than once if Mycroft hadn’t erased certain documents, paid certain investigators.   
He suddenly got up from the couch. As he walked through the room, he gathered his coat and scarf and put them on, coat collars turned up.  The moment he walked out on the London streets, his legs were programmed to auto-pilot. They were bringing him to the one place he was most familiar. He looked at the people passing him by. One was having an affair, probably with his secretary. The other had stolen money from a close relative, most likely to be able to afford her luxury coat. Boring. Still not satisfying. The urge was only growing stronger.

He walked on, leaving the busy streets and arriving at a darker corner of London. He quickly looked behind him, to see if one of Mycroft’s men had been following him. He had been looking out for them the entire way, naturally, but it was always better to be completely sure. The last thing he could use right now is a rant from his older brother, telling him he should know better. Sherlock knew that, by now, commenting on Mycroft’s weight instead of answering his condemning questions would not do the trick anymore. Sadly enough, Mycroft was right for once. Nonetheless, Sherlock was not one to admit his own mistakes.

After thoroughly analyzing every little speck of dust for signs of Mycroft and seeing none, he turned around again, watching the unhygienic man who was leaning against a wall. “Sherlock Holmes!” , the man exclaimed. “Haven’t seen you in a while, mate!”. Sherlock cringed at the sound of his name. Dave may look like an idiot, but he sure knew how to track his customers. At least, the regular ones. Sherlock silently cursed himself for putting up the website, with his full name and phone number. He faked a wide smile. “Been busy, Dave. Some of us have responsibilities, you know?”. The man smiled back at him, showing his teeth. “I’m sure you have plenty of responsibilities, Mr Holmes.”, he paused to let out a small sarcastic laugh. “So, what will it be, the regular?”. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, considering to expose Dave’s embarrassing little secret: he still wets his bed at night. Then, just when he was about to show off his impressive skills of deduction, he heard a police siren in the distance, making him realise the seriousness of his situation. If anyone saw him here, there would be a huge fuss. It would be best to get this over with as soon as possible. He swallowed his pride and gave a quick nod. Dave handed him a small plastic bag. Sherlock instantly paid the man and walked off, carefully hiding the package in his coat pocket. He started pacing back towards Baker Street. He was dreadfully silent on the outside. Inside he was yelling. Every possible insult in the English language crossed his mind in mere seconds, each one more vulgar than the one before.


	2. Chapter 2

He never had friends. He had become so used to not having them, that he convinced himself, and everyone around him, he did not need any. He did not see the use of having to behave in a way according to social standards, just so people would like to be around him. He did not understand other people anyway, so what would be the use of pretending to be someone he was not? 

Yet, he wondered what it would be like if people liked him. If people, instead of insulting him, giving him nasty looks and avoiding him as much as they could, would compliment him, make him feel appreciated or even would just genuinely smile at him as he walked by, as if they were happy to see him. What would it be like to sit in a pub, drink beers with friends while telling each other funny anecdotes of their daily lives? He could only guess. He ruined every chance of friendship within minutes of a conversation. It had always been like that, even when he was just a child. When he was young, they beat him up, until he had gathered enough strength to fight back. When he was a teenager, they hated him and verbally abused him. Now, they avoid him and when they couldn’t, they accused him of crimes he helped them solve. The world had been cruel to him, so he had learned to be cruel to the world. 

He breathed through his nose, closing his eyes. He could not help but let out a low moan. The substance was already taking a hold of him, clouding his mind. Finally, he was released from his mental torment. Temporarily, at least. But that didn’t matter, all that mattered was that he was free for now. He slowly opened his eyes, looking at the ceiling above him. It seemed to be moving, synchronised with his breathing. In, out, in, out, in, out. He grabbed the pack of cigarettes that was lying next to him. He already broke one promise, he might as well break a few more. As he lit the cigarette in his mouth, appreciating the way the smoke was forming around him, the doorbell rang. He chuckled. Must be Mycroft, coming to take a look. He was just imagining what to do with Mycroft’s nose if he stuck it in his business one more time, when the screen of his mobile phone lit up. Open the door. Mycroft, you should know better than that, he thought as he chuckled once more and almost closed his eyes, when the phone lit up again. Open up now, or I will help myself. You would not want that, now would you? He was not going to let that bastard in. He knew Mycroft would come in eventually, but he sure as hell was not going to help him. So he just stayed in exactly the same spot, lying with his back on the couch, closing his eyes, every once in a while inhaling his cigarette.

He did not have to wait for long before Mycroft came storming into his living room. “Sherlock, I thought you stopped smoking. Could you, for once, respect your body?” What a hearty greeting. Sherlock chuckled sarcastically. “You must be kidding me, right? Since when are you the one teaching others to take care of their health?”. Mycroft stared at him, his expression a mix between rage and concern. “You can go away now, I am doing just fine.”, Sherlock muttered, turning his back on his older brother. Mycroft approached him. He snatched Sherlock’s cigarette, before stamping on it with his shoe. Sherlock suddenly rose from his position, facing his brother. “Keep your hands off my property, you bloody moron!”, he roared, enraged. Mycroft eyed him, his eyes narrowing, a frown forming on his forehead. “You didn’t.”, he whispered, genuinely shocked. “Sherlock, you didn’t!” - “and what if I did? Why don’t you go back to playing secret agent, protecting the nation and that kind of bullocks?”, Sherlock yelled, wildly gesturing. Mycroft just stared at his little brother. This was the first time Sherlock had admitted to using. He was doing even worse than he thought. “Sherlock, please, st-” Mycroft began, but Sherlock cut him off. “Shut up! Shut up! SHUT UP!”, he growled. Then he paused, seeming to get a hold of himself. “Get out.”, he said, his voice calm, though frightfully cold. Mycroft nodded slowly. “I simply want what’s best for you. Even though you see me as your enemy, I remain nothing but your brother. Family. I will do as you wish. I merely hope you will listen to the advice I have given you.”. He started walking towards the door, shooting a glance at Sherlock one more time. Sherlock was still watching him, his eyes red, fists clenched. Mycroft turned around again and left the apartment, his worries even greater than when he arrived.


	3. Chapter 3

He woke up, slowly blinking. He yawned. What had happened? He looked around to find himself lying on the couch. He must have fallen asleep. He stretched his arms, moaning as he felt the aching of nearly every single muscle in his body. While scanning the room, he saw the ashtray next to him. It had been empty for weeks. Now it was filled with seven cigarette butts. They were his, he knew, as it was his favourite brand. Suddenly he remembered strolling through London. He grunted, covering his face with both his hands. He had done it again. He rubbed his eyes. “Damn it. Damn it!”, he accusingly screeched at the skull. 

If you were to ask others about Sherlock Holmes, the first comment they would make would be about his great mind. He seemed to know almost everything. Except the true meaning behind the emotions of the people around him. Either that, or he just simply does not care. Some would call him emotionless. Some would say that Sherlock can not be bothered about anything other than his massive intellect. As has been proven again and again throughout history, the majority was wrong. Sherlock was, to a greater extent than people expected, aware of the effect he had on his surroundings and, in some cases, his lack of empathy. He had emotions, strong ones at that. He just manages to push them away, while working on a case or messing his neurons up with recreational substances. The latter had always come easy for him. He was used to destroying his body. Sometimes by not eating, sometimes by not sleeping and sometimes by injecting himself with various chemicals, to study their effects on the human body.

Lying on the couch, Sherlock tried to fight the urge to scream. He began to wonder, whether his mind was a blessing or a curse. If anyone were to ask him, he would immediately question their intelligence and offer a sarcastic response. If only those who he had insulted through the years could see him now. 

As he coughed, surely an effect of the extensive smoking, he got up and walked towards the bathroom, only to stare at his reflection in the mirror. The figure in the mirror had an expression of pure shock. He had become even more hollow-eyed. His bright blue eyes almost seemed to light up in contrast to the dark circles surrounding them. He looked horrible.   
He sighed. He needed something. There was something missing in his life, but he did not know what. He did not enjoy the company of other people, they were too boring. Too judgmental. Too normal. He would never find anyone he could tolerate and, even more significant, someone who could tolerate him. It seemed that the only thing he could do was to fall back into his old habits, no matter how long he had stayed clean the last time. No one could ever tolerate you, spooked through his mind as he began reciting the 243 different types of tobacco ash to the skull, his only, lifeless, friend.


End file.
